


An Other Christmas Carol

by Chrissy24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Angst, Gen, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Javert gets scrooged, and ghosts, and some pretty disturbing scenes Javert must witness, mention of suicide, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cold and relentless Inspector Javert is visited by the three Ghosts of Christmas. As the glimpses of his past, present and future expose his faults and mistakes with painful precision, Javert must find the strength to change his ways, or be damned to lose his life in suicide.</p><p>Fill for a glorious <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=9517289#t9517289"> Les Mis Kind Meme prompt </a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stave 1 - Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun with this! It was actually quite therapeutic to write :)  
> To stay in style, I have included a liberal amount of (semi)quotes from both Dickens and Hugo where suitable, but I swear by far most of this is my own. I've taken some liberty with timing of events left and right to fit all scenes within the span of Christmas, but nothing too bad.

The weather had been positively foul today. Thick clouds had shed their wintery load on every surface in Montreuil-sur-Mer for hours on end. Only when darkness fell had the clouds dissipated, leaving the city covered in six inches of snow and with the promise of a very cold night.

In his office, police inspector and chief of police Javert scowled at the duty roster in his hand. That scowl could make grown men cower, but paper is patient and withstood his glare without changing. More’s the pity, because if anything, Javert wanted rearrange the roster to closer resemble normal functionality. Every other week of the year, all patrols were covered, all desks filled and a few men to spare if need be. Not so now.

It was Christmas Eve. For the coming days, starting tonight, he had only half of the usual manpower at his disposal. He scoffed. It would have been down to less than a third, if he would let the men have it their way. And what for? Because of a day that was exactly like all the others.

In the next room, someone shouted cheerfully. He cast an annoyed glance in the general direction of the door but otherwise ignored the sounds.

It was not that Javert was insensible to the significance of Christmas. If he was, this week’s duty roster would have been exactly the same as usual. It was more a matter of believing that faith in the Lord should be observed every day and not merely because it was Sunday or Christmas. That opinion was not shared by most, and so he was stuck with patrols that would not cover the entire town, lest he was willing to let his men patrol alone and without backup. Neither was an option, so there was nothing else to it but to make do with the worst of two evils.

Not that he was happy with the outcome.

The noise in the next room grew louder. It had been grating on his nerves for the last fifteen minutes, but as the voices grew more and more boisterous, it came to a point where he had had enough. He strode to the door of his office and yanked it open with terrible force.

“What in _blazes_ is going on here?!” he demanded at full voice.

All sound ceased immediately. In the communal office of the clerks, half a dozen faces pinked or paled, according to their owner’s inclination, but all wore the same expression of trepidation. Javert glared at each man in quick succession before the answer to his question dawned on him.

One man stood on a desk beneath the chandelier, while two others had each climbed on a chair to reach the top corners of two cabinets that were placed on either side of the office space. Between them they had a large garland decked with ribbons and holly. Similar decorations had been placed elsewhere, on walls, doors, furniture. One of the clerks had even put a sprig of green— in his hair?

Javert caught the eye of the highest ranking man among them.

“Sergeant, get down from that desk this instant,” he barked.

The sergeant quickly tried to tie one of the ribbons to the chandelier.

“ _Now_ , damn you!”

The garland fell and draped itself over two desks and a filing cabinet, abandoned as not only the sergeant but also the two men on the chairs quickly scrambled back to the floor to stand to attention.

“Monsieur, it’s only a little decora—“

“I have eyes, Dupont. I see what this is and it has absolutely no business being here,” Javert said direly. “This is a police station, not a chapel. You have exactly _two_ minutes to remove every last ribbon, wreath and leaf of holly from this office! And for Heaven’s sake, Assante, pull that parsley out of your hair!”

“It’s pine, monsieur,” young Assante said dejectedly, plucking at the pine twig. “Told you he wouldn’t approve,” he muttered at the gendarme next to him.

“If you knew that so well, you should have thought twice before joining in with this childish nonsense!”

Assante winced. “Yes, monsieur. Sorry, monsieur.”

“Now get a move on! Your two minutes are nearly half up.”

Javert remained in the doorway, arms crossed before his chest, as the men scrambled about to execute the order. Within seconds, all decorations had been scooped up and carried outside. With grim satisfaction, Javert went back to work, slamming his door for good measure.

He had barely set himself down again when someone knocked.

“Come in,” he growled.

It was the sergeant. “All gone, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,” he said quickly.

“Good.” Javert didn’t look up from his work until he noticed the man hadn’t left. “What now?”

“It’s just that some of the younger lads wanted to get the in spirit of the season, monsieur.”

“They can do that in their own time.”

“Well, we were thinking, since you disapprove of the decorations…” He trailed off when Javert gave him a pointed stare.

“Yes, sergeant?”

“We’ve got three men in the cells awaiting transport to Arras, monsieur. Would you allow them to have an extra meal tonight?”

“For what reason?”

The sergeant shrugged, a nervous grin appearing. “Because it’s Christmas, monsieur!”

“Out of the question,” Javert said curtly, returning his attention to his work.

“Monsieur?”

“You heard me, sergeant. Police protocols are made to be observed, and we will.”

“Begging your pardon, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, but protocols can be deviated from.”

“For pressing reasons only.” He glared intently at the sergeant. “Severe illness of the prisoner might constitute a pressing reason for extra food. Charity does not. Christmas does not. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And I have seen these men myself this morning, so do not give me some sorry excuse that they all fell mysteriously ill overnight, understood?”

The sergeant sighed with disappointment, but he relinquished the argument. “Yes, monsieur.”

 “Then get back to your duty, sergeant. We are shorthanded enough as it is.”

“Yes, monsieur,” the man said obediently and left the office.

For some time after that, Javert could work undisturbed, except for a short intrusion of a gendarme asking to have an extra day off. Knowing the lacking duty roster by heart, Javert had denied the man his request. The gendarme had been even more disappointed than Dupont, but he had not argued.

Now the hour was getting late and the clerks had left the office. In another hour or so, the men scheduled for night patrol would come in. He was therefore surprised to hear heavy footsteps crossing the squeaky floorboards in the communal office. With a mix of irritation and curiosity, he glanced up when the office door opened immediately after a single knock. When he recognised the man coming in, Javert got to his feet as he should, but his ingrained professionalism barely masked his resentment.

“Good evening, inspector,” said Monsieur Madeleine politely.

Javert nodded, if marginally. “Monsieur le Maire.”

“Please excuse me for calling so late, inspector,” Madeleine said with an oddly studied casualness. “I went by your apartment, but your landlady informed me you had yet to return, so I thought I might find you here.”

“You thought correctly, monsieur.”

“So I see…”

Javert was not in the mood for this. They had never been on very good terms, but these last few weeks, the very sight of the man made his blood boil.

“What can I do for you, monsieur?” he said, hoping to get this over quickly.

The older man looked a bit uneasy. “I came to apologise, actually,” Madeleine said at length. “I treated you unfairly when we were arguing the fate of that poor woman you had arrested.”

Javert’s jaw worked. ‘Unfairly’ was quite an understatement. The mayor - who Javert was very sure should _not_ be addressed by that title - had ridiculed him for doing his duty. In front of his men, no less! He gave the man a defiant glare, but said nothing.

“The argument was just,” Madeleine continued carefully, “but not the place or circumstances in which it took place. I apologise, inspector, and I would like to make you an offer of reconciliation. Please come to my house for Christmas dinner tomorrow evening.”

Javert, having no intention to accept the apology, raised a brow. “Reconciliation is not necessary, Monsieur le Maire,” he said coldly.

Madeleine frowned. “Not necessary, or not appreciated?”

“The distinction is inconsequential, as the result is the same. I cannot accept your invitation, monsieur.”

“Cannot or will not?” The mayor raised a hand. “No matter. As you said, the result is regrettably the same.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed. “You did wrong me, monsieur,” he said, his low voice dangerous. “You would be mistaken to think that your position in society absolves you of your trespasses.”

The expression that stole over Madeleine’s face was very brief, but clear enough for Javert to recognise as fear. He allowed himself a tiny, smug curl of his lips for his observation.

“Nor are you a man to forgive people their trespasses,” Madeleine replied, sounding tired all of a sudden. “Your loyalty to the law does you credit, Javert, but justice is not justice unless it goes hand in hand with mercy.”

“A subject you are well-versed in, I gather,” Javert said with a sneer.

Madeleine smiled, but it faltered under Javert’s unyielding gaze. “You should try it, inspector. The ability to show mercy is what makes justice just.”

Now Javert drew himself up to his full and considerable height, taking the same stance that instilled fear in hardened criminals and seasoned prisoners. To his satisfaction he caught Madeleine flinching ever so slightly.

“I believe, monsieur, that this is where I bid you to leave.”

Madeleine nodded politely. “That may be for the best, I agree. Good night, inspector.”

Javert said nothing as the man turned and left. He only followed him to the door in order to close after him, and lock it.

It was not his habit to actually lock his door, but he had had enough intrusions for tonight. His desk was still full and as he had appointed himself to man the station overnight, he intended to get a considerable amount of it done.

Suddenly he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head to look at it and saw his long cane tilt out of its corner and fall. Javert winced as it collided loudly with the wooden floor, the sound resonating in the silence of the office. He went over to pick it up, strumming his thumb over the leaden head, although the metal was far more likely to damage the floorboards than the other way around. 

Just as he wanted to set the cane back in its corner, he saw a strange reflection in the smooth lead. He squinted, recognising instantly that is was not his face he saw. Perhaps a trick of the light? He looked closer yet.

“Good God!”

Instinctively he dropped the cane, which clattered as it had before. It rolled away from him, still shining with the eerie reflection that did not reflect anything in the room. Javert swallowed hard, nostrils flaring when he refused to pant.

A face. He had seen a woman’s face in the leaden knob.

“Impossible!” he spat under his breath. He grabbed the cane and shoved it into the corner without sparing it a second glance. Then he paced back to his chair and sat down.

Mere imagination, he told himself. A lingering memory that surfaced, nothing more. A logical response of his mind to everyone around him speaking of family for at least two weeks. Of course that triggered memories. Of course it made him think of _her_. Only logical, he repeated and went back to work.

Yet he couldn’t help but glance at the cane from time to time.

The night patrols assembled and went on their rounds without intruding on him. Possibly the sergeants didn’t even know he was still here, but that didn’t matter. The solitude was welcome. The only men left in the building were the two in charge of the cells.

Yet as true silence descended on the nearly empty gendarmerie, Javert felt the darkness outside press heavily against the windows. His office was lit by the single lamp on his desk and a low fire in the hearth. It was enough to work by, but both lights cast long shadows in the corners. He kept his eyes on the paperwork, intent to ignore everything else.

Outside, the church bells tolled midnight.

As the last of the chimes ebbed away in the cold night air, Javert heard something else. A soft, scraping shuffle that seemed to drag itself closer. It was very faint at first, but grew more and more distinct as it continued. He tensed in alarm, trying to work out what it could be. His body sat straight in his chair yet was coiled like a wound-up spring. All the while, the shuffling grew louder, coming closer. When he listened closely, he heard the soft, moaning wails that accompanied it.

Ready for anything, Javert nevertheless jumped when nails scratched down the outside of the door. It was a long, terrible sound that raised his hackles even more than the sudden cold that seemed to have seeped into the room.

“Who is there?” he called out with a firm voice.

The scratching stopped. In the same instant, a small blue light appeared on the door. Javert watched breathlessly as it spread rapidly over the wood, making haphazard shapes that flowed together like water on a plate to form—

Despite himself, Javert whimpered at the sight before him.

The light had now gathered into a single, translucent shape. It had the shape of a woman in a long skirt and a bodice that hung low on her shoulders. Her long, curly hair spread around her head like wild snakes, dancing on an intangible wind. She stood barefooted yet hovered an inch or two above the floor, her arms spread imploringly towards him. And her face… It was gaunt and pale and yet so achingly familiar.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Ask me who I was,” the ghost – for that was all this could be – replied.

Javert looked at her. He could not ask who she had been. He already knew. He knew her name, her scent, her touch. He knew what he had called her.

“Daj?”

The old word felt alien on his tongue, not having spoken it for so long. The woman smiled warmly in reply, her arms still outstretched.

“You remember,” she sighed. “You remember me.”

“I willed myself to forget many things,” Javert said, his hand inconspicuously seeking purchase on the edge of his desk. “Many things. But no man could forget his mother if he has known her.”

She shuffled closer. Only now did he notice that her feet were shackled. The heavy chains scraped over the floorboards although he could see right through them. Daring himself to truly observe the apparition, he saw that her hands were withered, too frail to grasp anything even if they could. When her hair was blown from her neck, he saw that she wore another shackle there, with thick chains dragging her down.

“What are you?” he asked.

“A lost soul, condemned to dwell eternally among men without belonging to them.”

Javert shook his head, trembling. “This can’t be,” he said, mostly to himself. “I must be asleep, dreaming. It was a long day. I must have fallen asleep at my desk.”

The sound of the cane falling over once more woke him from his thoughts.

“No dream, my son!” said the ghost. “I am chained to this unlife for the greatest sin man can commit.”

“You were a criminal! Of course you sinned!” Javert blurted out. “You conned people, stole and swindled. When I was little we spend more time inside jails than outside of them!”

“It is true what you say. Yet those crimes God can forgive even if man can’t. What I did was far worse.” She held out her hands to him, her wrists upturned.

Javert involuntarily stepped back, but the ghost of his mother came ever closer until he could do nothing but see the ragged cuts across her wrists.

“Long after you deserted me, life was hard on me. No one helped me; no one came to my aid. No one showed me mercy. Desperate, I turned my back on God.” Shimmering, translucent tears fell over her intangible cheeks.

“What would you have me do? Pray for your salvation?”

She looked at him sadly. “No, my son. I am beyond salvation and must bear the weight of my sin. But _you_ ,” she gasped, “your life will end the same way if you cannot wrest yourself away from that abyss.”

“I have never so much as considered suicide,” Javert said, his unsteady voice finding strength in his determination. “That will not change.”

The ghost of his mother smiled wanly. “No one is impervious to such despair, my son. No one…” Suddenly she threw her head back, emitting a cry that pierced Javert’s heart, soul and body all at once. It was a terrible, wretched noise that screamed of darkness, loneliness and a desperate longing for it all to end.

“Stop it!” he snapped.

The wail persisted undeterred.

“Stop it, please!” He pressed his hands to his ears, but it did not mute the cry. “I said, stop it!”

In the distance, other wails fell in, all of them as angry, fearful and desolate as the tearing voice of his mother.

Javert’s body went weak while his soul was carved up by the knives of these miserable creatures. He fell to his knees, straining against the cries that assaulted him. Then, suddenly, the cries stopped and his mother looked down at him again.

“An eternity of this is what awaits you in your future, Javert,” she said solemnly. “I don’t know why you can see me tonight, but I have been with you every day since I died. I have seen your life and your soul. I can tell where you are headed, and I would spare you that pain.”

His ears and head were still ringing with the suffering that was embedded  in those frightful wails. It was hard to believe this had been merely a dream. And if it was _not_ a dream…

“How, daj? How can I set right when I cannot see what is wrong?”

“Three ghosts will come to you tonight. They will show you.”

“Ghosts? Like you?”

“Expect the first one at the stroke of one.”

Javert wanted to ask ‘one of what’, but the thought got lost as his mother’s apparition leaned closer to him. He closed his eyes when she made to touch his face.

“I would hold you, my son,” he heard her say. “I wish I could, but that is the fate of my kind.”

He opened his eyes, and found that he was alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to online dictionaries, 'daj' is Roma for 'mother'. Feel free to correct me if I got it wrong.


	2. Stave 2 – The Ghost of Christmas Past

Javert staggered to his feet, supporting himself heavily on his desk. Had he been sleeping? If so, how had he ended up on the floor? He rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes.

Outside, the church bells tolled midnight.

He froze, counting the bell as they chimed. Hadn’t he heard the stroke of midnight only a while ago? Or had that been a dream? That was a possibility, as this was very much his office, and the desk cluttered with what was distinctly his work. He took a deep breath to settle himself, went to the hearth to rake the fire and added a few logs to it before returning to his desk.

He was well underway to finishing a report when the church bells tolled the hour once more. They struck one. Alarmed as one who suddenly remembers an important errant he forgot, Javert looked up. And got the fright of his life.

Before his desk stood a kindly old man in a bishop’s cassock. He had a very warm, open face that smiled not only with lips, but with eyes and soul alike. His presence shone with a light that was not seen but rather felt. When Javert observed him warily, the Bishop spoke not, but only tilted his head a fraction as if listening with rapt attention.

“You are…?” Javert began.

“I am the one you were awaiting.”

Javert’s breath hitched in his throat. “I see.” He felt his hands starting to tremble lightly despite his resolution not to.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” the Bishop elaborated patiently. His voice was clear yet soft. If downy feathers made a sound, it would be this. To Javert, who was himself more akin to iron, the gentleness made him ill at ease.

“Considering your appearance as a man of the cloth, you must be the ghost of the very first Christmas then,” he said sarcastically.

The Bishop only smiled. “No, of your past.”

Javert’s mask of self-assurance faltered and was replaced by defiance. His past was not a subject he liked to dwell on, let alone have to broached for discussion.

“Not discussion,” said the Bishop. “I will show you what you have forgotten. Nothing more.”

Javert gripped the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white. “I chose to forget for a reason,” he bit through clenched teeth.

The Bishop tilted his head the other way. The smile was still there, but it had somehow gained a reproachful quality.

“Would you turn down a gift without even looking at it?”

It was a kind way to accuse him of cowardice, Javert realised. And justly so. Recomposing himself, he peeled his hands loose and rose from the chair.

“Very well. Show me what it is I need to see.”

The Bishop walked to the nearest window, gesturing Javert to follow him.

“Surely leaving through the door is less unwholesome,” Javert remarked, glancing out the window, where a street lantern lit a perfectly circular patch of the snowy street below.

The ghost raised a surprisingly youthful hand and placed it over Javert’s heart. “Those who love cannot fall,” he said, and instantly the room around them disappeared.

Darkness surrounded him. In its recesses, he heard a woman scream. I reminded Javert of the wail he had heard before and he wished to shut it out, but then a softer, higher cry replaced the first.

He stood in what by all appearances seemed to be a surgery. The walls and floor were covered with ancient white tiles, some of them cracked. The equipment was crude and would have been better-suited for cattle rather than humans. Still it was a woman who lay on the table, her knees lifted. With her was an older man in a white apron. His rolled up shirt sleeves were bloodstained.

“We should not be here,” said Javert to the Bishop.

“These are but shadows of things that have been,” said the Bishop. “We do not exist to them.”

Javert still felt like a trespasser on the scene. It was clear that the woman had just given birth. That was an event he never expected nor wanted to witness.

“There is one birth that all men have no choice but experience,” the Bishop said with an audible smile.

Only now did Javert truly dare to look at the woman, who was cradling the newly born baby to her breast, coaxing it to feed. Her long dark brown hair was a matted mess, her skin was a few tones darker than that of most. She was naked now safe for the sheet that the doctor had draped over her lower body. It fanned from her legs like a long skirt.

“Is this—?”

“Oh my dear boy,” the woman cooed lovingly. “Sweet baby, my darling.”

“You may spend the night here,” the doctor said to her. “Come morning, you will be returned to your cell.”

Yes, this did resemble the surgery in a prison. Bare facilities that often did more harm than good. Javert remembered them well. He also remembered this particular surgery well. He had seen it on several occasions during his youth.

“I must fill in a name,” said the doctor.

The woman only had eyes for her baby. “Javert,” she whispered. “His name shall be Javert.”

At this, Javert swallowed hard. “It is Christmas Eve?” he asked the ghost.

“Your very first.”

He was silent for a bit. “I knew where I was born,” he said, “but never when.”

The Bishop merely continued to smile.

“Family name?” the doctor asked.

Now the woman pulled up her legs defensively. “None.”

“What?”

“I will not condemn him for being his father’s son, monsieur. Please, spare him that?”

The doctor snorted and began to write. “Javert it is, then.”

“Of course,” said Javert to the ghost beside him. “The register of civil status had not been introduced yet. One name sufficed. At least it sufficed for the kind of life that awaited me.” He looked at the exhausted woman on the examination table and the little bundle in her arms. “Poor boy,” he muttered, “born in the gutter and destined to stay there.” He did not approve of pity, but to the best of his ability, he could not think of a better word to describe what he felt for his newborn self. “Poor boy…”

“Come,” the Bishop said, gently taking hold of his arm, “let us see another Christmas.”

The white tiles of the surgery disappeared, only to be replaced by sand-coloured flagstones that were dirty and stained with damp. The space was larger, with thick walls and a door with iron bars on one end. It reeked of sweat, waste and stale food. The stones were cold, snow drifting in through a barred hole in the wall that served as a window. There was no fire.

And yet Javert felt his heart flutter at the sight.

Six women sat huddled together on the straw mattresses put together to ward off the cold of the flagstones. They were not as miserable as they might be expected to. Extra bread and water had been brought to the prisoners, with a small bowl of olive oil to flavour the bread. Now they shared this little feast – for to them that was what this meagre meal was – with each other, singing songs of Christmas and yuletide. One of the women had a young boy of perhaps five or six years old on her lap. He clapped his hands as he sang along in high spirit.

“I remember this,” said Javert wondrously. “It was cold, but singing kept us warm in our hearts, if not in our bodies. My mother’s cellmates were not always kind to me, but on nights like these, they were like family.”

On the mattress, his mother cuddled his younger self until the boy giggled in delight. Then she gave him another piece of bread dipped in oil. While he watched, she had fed her child several of such pieces, never taking one for herself.

“Your lip is trembling,” said the Bishop. “And what is that upon your cheek?”

Javert made no effort to wipe away the single tear that ran down his face. “She must have loved me,” he whispered to himself. “It was often she did not want me near her, but in these circumstances, that should not have been so surprising.”

The Bishop touched his hand lightly. “You were a child. You had no mind for the cares of adults, nor could you have been expected to understand.”

“I felt rejected when she yelled at me.”

“As any child would.”

“At times I thought she no longer loved me. Later I began to truly believe that.” How he regretted it now. He had turned his back on her later in life, when he broke with all she had represented. Perhaps then he had also broken with his capacity to love as much as she had loved him.

“I wish…” He left his sentence hanging.

The Bishop looked at him. “Yes?”

“No matter. I was just thinking of something one of my officers asked tonight. He wanted to give the prisoners in the cells an extra meal. I feel I should give him permission to do so.”

The Bishop smiled, seeming satisfied. Then he took Javert’s arm and the scene changed once more.

It was another cell, another dirty sandstone floor in, very evidently, another prison.

“Toulon,” Javert said with a heavy sigh. “The rack room.”

Indeed, in the middle of the room stood a large wooden St Andreas cross, tilted at an angle so a man could be lying down on it and tied at both wrists and ankles. Very much like the broad-shouldered man currently shackled to the beams.

He was big and muscular for the years of hard labour he had done. His skin was taught, tanned and worn, his hands calloused. And yet behind his enormous beard shone an unexpected anxiety as a young guard slowly circled the rack, a whip in hand. The guard tall but lithe, barely an adult. His face was clean shaven, his long hair bound back tightly at the nap of his neck.

“Five lashes you are to have,” said the guard, who Javert recognised as his twenty-year-old self.

“It was an accident,” the prisoner snarled. “I told you!”

“The warden decided otherwise. It is not for me to question his judgement.”

The prisoner grunted under his breath.

“I have been ordered not to spare you for the sake of Christmas,” the guard continued.

The big man on the rack turned his head a fraction. “Is it Christmas?” he asked with a strangely innocent tone of voice. The young guard stopped to gauge the man. The response seemed to have been genuine.

“Yes, 24601. Today is Christmas Day.”

Javert gasped. “Valjean,” he breathed. “I remember that this happened, but I never realised that it was him.”

“Was there are reason that this should have significance? There are hundreds of prisoners in the chaingangs of Toulon. How many of them did you have under your lash over the years?”

Too many. Yet Javert only thought of the mayor and tried to see his face in the wretched prisoner before him now. Any likeness there was seemed farfetched.

“Does it matter that is it Christmas Day?” the young guard asked the man.

“It is a day like any other,” Valjean replied automatically. “But it gives me reason to remember things of my life I fear to forget.”

“Such as?” the young Javert scoffed disdainfully at him. The sound all too familiar to his older self, but Javert noticed that in his youth, the disdain had been cultivated, like a gesture he did not mean. That was different now he was older. Now he meant it, even when there was a chance it was misplaced.

The prisoner Valjean suddenly spoke up in reply to the question Javert had almost forgotten his younger self had asked.

“My sister, her children.” He sounded wistful. “It has been nearly five years since I have seen them.”

The young guard stopped his slow pacing. “Your family.”

Valjean nodded. “I was sentenced to this place for stealing a loaf of bread when I had no money left to feed them.”

“Stealing is wrong,” the young guard stated with a clear voice.

“A child starving to death is also wrong.”

Javert thought back of the little boy in the cell with his mother. He had known famine then. There had been times when he could have starved if not for some of those women sharing their bread with the boy. It was a recollection he knew passed before his younger self’s mind, too.

“Nevertheless theft is a crime,” the young guard said, but for now it still lacked conviction.

The prisoner struggled against the restrains that cut into his flesh. “If not wanting to die is a sin, every man on Earth would go to Hell!”

“We all would, if not for the Lord’s son. Today we celebrate his birth, 24601. Think of that instead.”

Javert felt a pang of shame, knowing now that it was the day of his own birth, too. Such a great contrast…

From the rack, Valjean watched the young guard continue to circle him. “Perhaps it is the warden’s kindness, in spite of his order, that he sends you to give me those lashes.”

“A kindness?!” young Javert barked indignantly.

“There are stronger guards,” Valjean said. Any emotion that might have carried in those words, be it light or dark, was instantly replaced by a pained gasp as the young guard brought the whip down on the man’s back.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking me weak, 24601.” 

The prisoner muttered something unintelligible.

“I assume that means that you stand corrected,” said the young guard. There was no smugness in his voice.

Yet the four lashes that followed in quick succession were not nearly as sharp as the first. Javert remembered holding back, hitting hard enough to leave marks, but not enough to draw blood every time. His superior would reprimand him for it later. Showing mercy was a weakness, his younger self would be told that day and many times after. Men such as the one before him now were barely more than animals and should be treated in kind. For years, that was exactly what Javert had done.

Now he wondered if a touch of mercy might have left these prisoners their humanity.

“You have a keen memory. There is much you remember,” said the Bishop as the rack room faded away.

“No, Ghost. My memory is clear but selective. Much of what you show me, I could not recall until I saw it.”

“Then let me show you something more.”

At the touch of the Bishop’s hand, they stood in another cell, yet a clean one with a normal door and two simple beds along each side of the cell. They saw two men. One, a robust young man with red hair who sat on one of the beds, wore the uniform of the Toulon prison guard. The other was older, but the long tress of his hair was not yet greying. His uniform was that of a gendarme, but the fabric was new and too stiff still to fit him well. He was attempting to tie a brand new cravat without the aid of a mirror. He had little success. Growling in frustration, he pulled the thing loose and started over.

“This is the day I left Toulon for my new position,” said Javert. “I couldn’t wait to leave the prison behind me.”

“You could at least wait until tomorrow,” the man on the bed said to Javert’s younger self.

“I do not see why.”

The guard flung his legs on the bed and lay back. “Well, there is the party at Hommain’s auberge tonight.”

“I have no reason to attend,” the gendarme said stiffly.

“Oh, come on, Javert! Drinks and food in abundance, and the warden is paying!”

“Then I have no business to attend, as I am no longer in his service.”

“Pay for your own then, but I tell you, you don’t want to miss this!”

Javert watched himself struggle with the cravat. He had the urge to step forward and do it for him, but the Bishop’s radiant smile made him hesitate.

“They are only shadows. You cannot touch, let alone change.”

Fortunately the red-headed guard – his name was Gilles, he now recalled – leapt from the bed and came to his aid.

“Here, let me do that. You gotta look your best in your new uniform, right?”

“Respectable will do,” young Javert growled.

“Don’t be like that,” Gilles pleaded. “Look, I know this is a big break and I wish you all the best in the world, but you really ought to stay for the party.”

Young Javert sighed irritably. “Why are you so adamant about this?”

“Because Brumeau is bringing his sister Jeanette.” He caught the flash of colour that appeared on his roommate’s face. “See, I told you you’d want to stay.”

But Javert turned away brusquely. “Cease your ridiculous suggestions. Even if I were interested in seeing her again, I have no reason to.”

“No reason? Dear God, Javert, must I spell it out to you?” Gilles held up two hands. “You like her, she likes you.” He put his hands together and rubbed them. “It’s not like you’d be marrying her or anything.”

That had been on his mind at the time, Javert recalled. At the time he had been thirty-five and alone all his life. Jeanette was the first and so far only girl to show him any interest despite his cold behaviour. But there had been too many complications.

“Of course I will not!” his younger self barked. “She is a respectable young lady and I am a gypsy, born of convicts. I can already imagine Brumeau’s reaction, never mind her father’s!”

“She doesn’t need to know that,” Gilled argued.

“But she already does. Everyone in this town knows what I am!” That was exactly why he had been so desperate to get away from the place now he got the chance.

Gilles crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “You know, I don’t think Jeanette would even mind.”

The younger Javert scoffed, the sharp edge of disdain at full strength now. “And abase myself and her both? I think not.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help.”

The gendarme rounded on him. “Don’t!” he spat, enunciating the last letter with such sharpness it could cut. “What you are suggesting is both immoral and illegal.”

“Everyone does it! As long as you don’t knock her up, none’s the wiser.” Gilles shrugged. “And even if you do, you’ll be long gone from here before anyone finds out.”

Gilles had been a friend, Javert recalled, insofar as he had ever considered anyone close enough to earn that title. Unfortunately the man had been thick as molasses and unable to think of anything beyond his base instincts. He had been a remarkably good guard, though. Possibly for that exact reason.

“You do not understand,” Javert heard his younger self say vehemently. “If I am ever to free myself of the shackles of my childhood, I must be irreproachable.”

“General consensus is that you are. And consequently as dull as a dormouse.”

“What do I care whether I bore you or not? I do my duty, and my duty is _not_ to entertain you.”

“No, no one could ever accuse you of being entertaining, that’s for sure.”

Javert’s younger self narrowed his eyes, predicting imminent fury. Seeing his expression rather than looking out through his own eyes, Javert began to understand why the younger gendarmes under his command would start quivering when he was angry.

“I do not care whether I’m liked or not, Gilles. The opinion of men means nothing. It is fickle, inconsistent and therefore useless!”

The red-headed guard stared, clearly taken aback. “Then what? God?”

“The law,” said the young Javert with a hint of reverence. “That is all that matters. Moral guidelines waver. The law does not."

“But, the law is made by men, Javert,” said Gilles carefully.

“Yes, but it is greater than the sum of them. The law is objective where men are not. It is real, tangible. One can be held accountable to it, unlike moral values, which vary from person to person and even then are not consistent.”

Gilles looked decidedly uncomfortable now. “Isn’t that what the Lord’s justice is for? The one and final Truth?”

“The code we serve is the law of God on Earth, Gilles. Do right by it, and you will do right by Him.”

Javert felt an unknown coldness in his chest when he heard himself speak those words. He had believed in this for years, and with religious fervour. The law was his guiding star, the one mark by which to judge himself and his actions. By which to determine if he succeeded to be irreproachable.

For that had always been his ideal: not to be humane, or great, or sublime, but to be irreproachable. It was what he strived for on a daily basis. Yet now he was forced to ask himself: at what cost, to himself and to others?

The argument between the men continued, but Javert didn’t heed it any longer. “Please,” he said quietly to the ghost, “remove me from this place.”

The Bishop’s eternal smile did not falter. “You wish to flee something that has already happened. These shadows cannot be undone.”

Javert nodded gravely. “I understand. Nevertheless, I wish to leave now.”

The Bishop raised a gentle hand and once more touched Javert’s chest, right over his heart. The scene faded as darkness surrounded them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that was Bishop Myriel, as per OP's request :)


	3. Stave 3 - The Ghost of Christmas Present

Javert woke with a start behind his desk. A quick review of the premises confirmed that his office was as it should be. Even the fire in the hearth was ablaze with the logs he had added to it earlier. But he was alone. The kindly bishop was nowhere to be seen, and neither was any other apparition.

Outside, the church bells tolled midnight.

He gasped. Midnight again? Surely he was hallucinating? Or losing his senses, he concluded morosely. The things he had seen just now lay spread out before his mind’s eye. It was not a pleasant awareness, but he would not turn away from it lightly. Whether or not the ghost had been a figment of his own imagination, what it had said to him held true: what he had seen were memories, shadows from times gone by that could not be changed.

Three ghosts, the apparition of his mother had promised. He waited in silence for the second one, fighting back the wetness in his eyes as more recollections of his time with her surfaced, some good, some inherently bad.

Time passed slowly, yet nothing happened. Javert heard the clock in the communal office strike the quarters until the church bells once more tolled the first hour after midnight. Still nothing came.

In an attempt to steady his nerves, he got up and began pacing up and down the office. It took his long legs only a handful of strides to make it across from the wall to the hearth and back.

Javert hadn’t been aware of this before, but he could hear the ticking of the clock in the communal office through the wall. It aggravated him greatly, especially when every so often a tick that was louder than the others made him jump at nothing. It annoyed him greatly.

That clock struck the half hour, the bells echoing loudly in the silence.

He had had enough. If that second ghost did not deign to appear, at least he would have silence while going back to work. He grabbed the door handle and jerked the door open.

Javert stopped in his tracks at what he found beyond, so surprised as to let his jaw drop. The communal office looked exactly as it always had, except that it was now lavishly decorated with holly, pine, berries and colourful glass orbs. His first instinct was to curse his men for disobeying a direct order, until he realised that the room was bathing in bright light, which it should not be. But that was not the strangest thing. 

“Ah, there you are,” said a familiar voice cheerfully.

Amidst the decorations sat Monsieur Madeleine, impeccably dressed in far finer clothes than Javert had ever seen the man wear. His greying hair and beard waved in perfect harmony, unlike anything even the best barber could manage. It was this that alerted him to the fact that while the man looked like the mayor, he most likely was not even human. Uncertain of what to make of this, Javert averted his eyes.

“Look at me,” the voice of Madeleine implored. The sound was incredibly alike to the real man, as much as the tiny, infuriatingly disarming smile that the man always seemed to wear. “Look at me,” the apparition implored again.

Implored. It was not an order. Still, Javert obeyed, his straight back rigid. The man’s eyes, when he met them, were too bright, and Javert tried to convince himself this was not that man he took the apparition for. His mind, however, refused to think of it by any other name.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said Madeleine pleasantly.

“I surmised as much,” said Javert stiffly. He had no idea what to expect of this ghost, it having taken the shape it had.

“This shape is one you recognise,” said Madeleine. “And one that makes sense to you when I show you what I will.”

Javert took a slow, deliberate breath. He did not cherish the idea of what he would be shown. He didn’t doubt it would be as awkward as the images of his past, if not more so. Yet he could not ignore that those shadows had taught him. If there was a lesson to be learned, he would listen.

“Show me what you must.”

The bright eyes shone. “Then take my hand,” Madeleine said, extending it.

Javert approached the ghost. When he hesitated to take the hand, it was a reflex of habit more than true reluctance. At last, he tentatively reached out. The moment his hand touched Madeleine’s they stood outside, in the town square, beneath a street light.

The streets were dark, but full of people. Men, women and children were hurrying through the snow to attend the night mass. He heard their voices, laughing cheerfully, chiding the cold.

“I thought mass would have started already,” Javert said.

The ghost laughed in Madeleine’s voice. “If I were to show you the exact present moment alone, you would not learn. But you will see what this Christmas brings. Come. Mass is just one aspect.”

They did not move from their spot, but within an instance, the sun rose and the light of the street lamps had been replaced by broad daylight.

The snow in the square had been trampled by hundreds of feet passing by, and more doing so even now. The townsfolk, all in their best clothes, were making the last preparations for tonight’s feast. The shops were so crowded that the butcher and the grocer had set up extra market stalls before their shops to serve their customers. Children, well-tended and gamin alike, ran about. Yet for all the people around them, Javert and the ghost were ignored.

“It seems well, does it not?” Madeleine said. “A full table means a full belly.”

Javert did not hear him. His eye had spotted a boy in rags hovering close to one of the stalls, eyeing a chocolate cake roll. As the boy’s hand moved, so did his. With an icy sting, his hand went straight through the boy’s body, while the child made off with the roll, its absence going unnoticed with the vendor.

Dumbstruck, Javert stared at his hand. Beside him, the ghost roared in genuine laughter.

“What did you expect?” Madeleine said. “You are not here, you cannot touch.”

“But the child stole—“

“Let him have it,” the ghost said. “The boy has no home and no family but those like him. If he wishes to share a little feast with his fellow gamin, let him.”

“It was still theft,” Javert protested.

Madeleine smirked at him. “If that irks you so, allow me to rectify it.” He produced a silver coin in his hand and put it where the cake roll had been. To Javert’s surprise, the vendor noticed the coin and gladly took it before helping the next customer.

“Kindness is always noticed,” said the ghost, eyeing Javert intently.

“It was not kindness to pay for the food. That was justice.”

“Oh? I thought it would have been justice to apprehend the child and make him give the roll back or, had he been older, to go to jail for his trespass.”

“That would have been just, too,” Javert said uneasily. “But as long as the child knows that stealing is in itself a crime, if someone else pays for the wares he took, it is still a purchase to the law.”

Madeleine smiled. “See? You are learning already.”

Javert’s sour expression only earned him another laugh from the ghost. The gentle kindness of it only aggravated Javert even more.

“You will understand in time,” said Madeleine. “Come, follow me.”

They walked on through the streets of Montreuil. Javert noticed that it was only he that the people ignored. They did see the ghost, if not the way he did, for they did not recognise the man who spoke to them. To Javert, however, the ghost began to resemble Monsieur Madeleine with increasing accuracy: as they went, he handed out silver coins to people he passed. To rich and poor alike, although he was far more generous to those in need. It reminded him of the mayor’s habit to go around town with the specific aim to give alms.

 “It is not charity,” said the ghost in answer to a thought Javert hadn’t even voiced in his own head. “Charity implies that the recipient has done nothing to earn what he receives.”

“I thought that was the whole intention,” said Javert, but without such cynicism as the words might have held.

“There is a difference between mercy and charity,” said Madeleine. “These coins give a moment’s reprieve, a moment’s mercy, to those who need it. With it, they can fill a gap that would otherwise have gone unfilled despite their earnest efforts to fill it themselves. In charity, there might not even be a gap, and if there is, there has been no previous effort to fill it.”

Javert considered this with great scrutiny. “You say mercy is reprieve given to the deserving, and charity is reprieve given needlessly. But how does one tell the difference?”

“I will show you.”

They did not change course, but simply continued down the street they were already on. The ghost did not cease handing out coins and sometimes even food, all of which manifested in the open palm of his hand. Javert chose not to dwell on the physical impossibility of that any more than he had dwelled on the physical impossibility of moving through time and space.

When they came to the end of the street, Javert recognised the building directly ahead of him. He suppressed a cold shiver, suspecting with near certainty why the ghost had brought him here.

“You are evidently a smart man with a sharp mind,” said Madeleine congenially. “Perhaps what you will see here will convince you to put those assets to use more often.”

They did not go in through the door. Rather, the moment they climbed the steps of the hospital, they immediately entered a small ward with six beds. Five of them were occupied with patients, with two sisters tending to them.

Madeleine slowly walked down the aisle between the beds, Javert trailing a few steps behind. As the ghost passed the second bed, the man in it – and old, frail creature whose skin was brittle and translucent as glass – gasped once in the distinct manner that Javert recognised as a last breath. He stopped by the bed and looked at the old man. The emaciated body had gone entirely still.

“Some times,” Madeleine’s voice said, “death is the only mercy left to give. Now, come and see the answer to your question.”

Javert knew what he would find lying in the bed that stood in the far corner of the ward. The woman hadn’t looked well when he had arrested her, but now the street jade was very clearly on the verge of death. Sweaty with fever as she was, her shorn hair was plastered to her head. The rusty stains on her pillow left little to the imagination.

“She is dying of consumption,” Javert concluded. “It would seem that even the mayor’s mercy came too late for her.”

“Would you have shown her such mercy, had you known this?” the ghost asked.

Yesterday, this question would have resulted in a straightforward answer. Now, the matter was decidedly more complex.

“She is a street jade. Whether such women die of the white plague or the claps, they are never long for this life. It is a consequence of their choice to sell their body.”

“You have not answered my question.”

“Nor do I understand your answer to mine.”

Madeleine chuckled. Then his bright eyes grew still and he sat down on the chair beside the bed. “Fantine chose the live as a public woman. That is correct. But did you know that she did so out of despair?”

“So she claimed, yes.”

“Only she did not claim. She spoke the truth.” The ghost’s perfect hand stroked the woman’s face. The fever dream that had been plaguing her seemed to subside as her ragged breathing became quieter. “She had many gaps to fill,” said Madeleine. “Emotions and financial gaps alike. She did all that she could, but despite her best efforts, it was not enough.”

 Javert folded his arms before his chest, wilfully ignoring the defensive nature of the gesture.

“For all I knew at the time, she could be lying about having a child to care for. It is what dishonest men do: they lie.”

“You yourself could have seen she was not lying about being ill.”

“How could I have known she was dying?” Javert barked. “And if I had known, I cannot cure consumption! I could not have done anything for her but what I was about to!”

“To put her in jail?”

“To get her off the street and to a place where she would be warm and receive regular meals.”

The ghost gave him a meaningful look. “Such as a hospital, perhaps?”

Javert gritted his teeth. He had told himself over and over that he had had no other option but to arrest the jade. But had he? Could he have taken - of all things! - pity on the girl and send her to hospital despite her transgression? It brought him back to his original question:

“If mercy is just and charity is not, how could I have known whether doing anything but that what I did to her would have been charity rather than mercy?”

The ghost got up again. “Like everything in life, that distinction is not set in stone. The world is not divided in black and white, but is comprised of an infinitely changing shade of grey.”

Javert gazed at Madeleine with a mixture of confusion, incomprehension and absolute fury. His world had always consisted of nothing but the clear and carefully maintained distinction between what was right and lawful, and that which was not. To be told that he was, in fact, continuously balancing on a sliding scale between those extremes was unheard of, indecent and completely unacceptable!

He said nothing, but his stance spoke volumes.

“Then I believe there is something you must see,” said the ghost, and he took Javert by the hand.

Within a heartbeat, they stood in the dank kitchen of what Javert suspected had to be an inn. If so, it was not the best of places. Uncorked but half-full wine bottles stood scattered left and right, amidst unprepared food or what should pass for food. Javert suspected a considerable amount of it had spoiled to the point of becoming poisonous.

Beneath the kitchen table, something moved. With a smile, Madeleine urged him to crouch down and see what it was.

Javert went down on one knee and stooped to see. However, he had to look twice before he recognised the wretched thing that crawled about there as a child, a girl. She was stick-thin, dirty and the skin of her bare feet and knees was raw and red. She sat on her hands and knees, pushing a big brush over the floor. Under her breath, she was humming a Christmas hymn, completely oblivious of Javert.

“Who is she?”

“The child that your street jade seeks to protect.”

It was distasteful to remark that apparently she had failed in that attempt, but the thought did cross Javert’s mind. Despite the snow piling up on the window sills, the girl wore a torn linen summer dress that did nothing to keep out the cold. Or to hide the enormous purple bruises on her ribs and arms that spoke of regular beatings.

“Even the gamins have woollen clothes to wear in winter,” he said solemnly. “I have little patience with children, but what kind of people would treat a child this way?”

The expression on Madeleine’s face was strangely impassive. “The couple that has taken her in are sort that you would be right to consider criminals. They will only keep her while her mother sends money.”

Javert felt his chest tightened. “Money that has stopped coming now she is in hospital and dying.” He gazed at the wisp of a girl, truly wishing he was not a ghost to her. “Will she live?” he asked.

“If the shadows remain unaltered, if no one will take mercy on her and remove her from this place, then she will die.”

Glancing back at the girl that was singing so bravely despite her harsh work, Javert felt a pang in his chest that he had never experienced before. “Who will do that?” he demanded. “There must be someone!”

“There is. Your mayor knows of the child and intents to take her in his care.” The ghost smiled pleasantly. “Unless, of course, he is exposed as a parole breaker and is returned to prison for his crimes.”

Javert buckled as if he had received a blow to the stomach. When he had the air to, he scrambled to his feet, eyes wide but silent. That a criminal must suffer for his crimes was just. That an innocent child should die as a consequence was not. He would, he vowed, find the girl if the mayor could not. Less for the girl’s sake, perhaps, than to quench his own guilt, but he would see it done.

“No punishment without culpability, you say,” said Madeleine approvingly. “You do have a sense of true justice, then.”

Still pale and breathing heavily, Javert replied: “It is all I have. Without it, I become the animal my birth condemned me to be. I must keep it sacred.”

“And you do.”

The surroundings changed again. The rancid kitchen disappeared and the darkness of a street by night unfolded around them. They were back in Montreuil, Javert realised. One of the older quarters, where the poor lived.

“Come and see,” said Madeleine, pointing at a lit window in a small tenement house.

Suddenly they were inside the apartment. It was a sober place, not unlike Javert’s own. He, too, lived in a single room that contained all he needed. This room was a fraction larger, but then it housed a family of five rather than a man alone. A young man and his wife sat at the only table. On a mattress in the corner, three young children slept peacefully.

“Do you recognise them?” the ghost asked.

Javert did. The man was a gendarme under his command, a man called Maltier. He was the one who had asked for an additional day off that evening.

“So you must go to work tomorrow?” the wife said dejectedly. “But we were to go to the cemetery!” Her eyes were red-rimmed already and now she seemed to be about to shed yet more tears.

“I know, love, I know,” Maltier said. “It’s a day shift. We will go afterwards. It will be dark, but I’m sure we can find a good spot for Danielle even then.”

Madame Maltier did not stop crying. “Didn’t you ask for some time? Even half a day would be enough, or perhaps two hours. Didn’t you ask?”

“Of course I asked,” said the man miserably. “But I warned you it might not work, didn’t I? Javert isn’t a lenient man. If he declines a request, that’s final. It’s more than my job’s worth to argue with him.”

“Oh, you told me about him often enough! But I cannot believe that even he would be so cold as to say flat out ‘no’ when all you need it some time to choose a grave for your baby daughter…” She stared at him for a moment. Then her tears fell in earnest and she began to sob. Maltier went over to her and put his arms around his wife, crying softly into her hair.

"I'm sorry, Monique," sighed Malthier. "The inspector was so quick to decline that I didn't dare to tell him the reason anymore. If I lose my job..."

In the corner, Javert rubbed his hands over his face. “He never said,” he whispered. “I didn’t know any of this.”

“Neither did you ask,” said Madeleine softly. “Malthier has always been diligent. He never asked for leave wantonly, yet you simply assumed he had no urgent reason to ask les than a day in advance.”

“How was I to know his child had died?” But he knew the answer as soon as the question formed.

He hadn’t asked. And he hadn’t asked, because he inherently believed in the worst of people. He even considered himself nothing better than a wolf with a collar: duty and the law constrained and concealed his feral nature enough to make him appear civilised, but that was still in appearance only. He did not trust himself anymore than he trusted anyone else.

“The law is just,” he said, a mantra that lacked conviction as his voice began to shake. “The law is just; protocols are in place for a reason. They give guidelines, guidance…” And an excuse not to blame himself for making terrible misjudgements such as these, he realised with horrific clarity.

They had not left the small apartment and before them, Madame Maltier dried her eyes, comforting her husband now in turn.

“It is Christmas,” she said, sniffing, “it is the time to forgive. We shouldn’t blame your inspector for his harshness. You said he has no family of his own. Perhaps he simply cannot understand what it means to loose...”

Maltier smiled faintly at her when her words faltered, patting her shoulders in tender comfort. “You are quite right, Monique. He cannot. By his own admission, he doesn’t have a heart. Anyone making a plea of empathy is turned down. It’s not even worth the trouble to try. All that speaks in his favour is that he is honest in his coldness, treating himself as harshly as he does anyone else.”

“Then it would seem to me that despite our grief, he is far worse of than we.” She glanced at her husband and at her sleeping children, hugging herself. “I don’t even want to imagine what it must be like to live such an empty, loveless life.”

The pity in her voice was heartfelt. Javert nearly recoiled at hearing it directed at him.

“My life is not empty,” he said, throat raw. “The law gives me all comfort I need.”

“You do you still believe that?” Madeleine asked him.

“I must.” His voice trembled. His body trembled. “I must! Without it, I will fall.”

The ghost gently took his hand. “What makes you think you haven’t already?”

Before Javert truly registered these words, the warm apartment was gone and they stood on the banks of the river, by a pier near the docks. A watery morning sun shone down, making the ice and snow sparkle in its light.

“You saw the child under the table,” said Madeleine. “Now crouch down here, and see another.”

Javert’s throat tightened painfully as he followed Madeleine’s gaze to the space under the pier. Shaking head to foot, he obeyed the ghost’s order and knelt down to see what lay beneath the wooden planks.

There was a shape there, bundled up in frozen shawls that had not kept out the cold. He saw a white hand, half the size of his own, protrude from the rigid folds. Javert had seen enough in his time as a policeman to recognise death when he happened on it. Still, his heart pounded at his temples as he took hold of one of the shawls to pull it back. The ice that encrusted it broke away as he did, revealing a young boy’s face, white as the hand and covered with ice crystals. The child seemed to be asleep, his eyes closed and his body rolled into itself. Asleep, as he no doubt had been when he froze to death in the cold winter night.

Javert let his hand drop away, suddenly seeing the red scarf around the boy’s neck. “I know him,” he ground out. “Caught him trying to pickpocket, not two days ago. He said he was starving, and I…” A strangle sob escaped his lips. “I told him that it was all he deserved if he could not make an earnest living for himself.”

“What you did was lawful,” said Madeleine. “That should allow you to wash your hands of his death, shouldn’t it?”

Javert shook his head. “To be just also means to take responsibility. If this is my fault,” and he knew it was, “I will not claim otherwise.”

“If that were true, you would have taken responsibility when it might still matter.”

“His life was not my _sole_ responsibility!” Javert protested, his eyes wet. “It was his, too!”

For the first time, Madeleine frowned severely. “You would put responsibility on shoulders that cannot carry it? What kind of man would treat a child this way?”

Javert heard the echoes of his own words, and broke. Grief, shame, but above all an endless regret flooded him. He tried to retain his composure, but it would be a farce to do so. He did not even try to hide his face in his hands as he felt the unfamiliar sensation of tears streaking down his face.


	4. Stave 4 – The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation over cognac in the chapter (you'll know it when you see it) concerns historical people discussing actual events. The conversation itself is my imagination, but if you squint, it just might possibly have happened.

Javert cried his pain and his fathomless regret, oblivious of his surroundings. He had made so many mistakes. He had made so many mistakes while being confident that he had done the right thing. He had not. He had fought so hard to control the beast he knew to lurk inside him, but for his efforts, he had become another kind of monster instead.

How could he face these people now his damnable shortcomings were exposed? How could he live with himself, knowing everything he had done while striving to be just had instead been a grave injustice?

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight.

A mist blew in, obscuring all that was around him until there was nothing but darkness laced with grey strands of fog stretching out like ghostly tentacles. Javert, still on his knees, felt a cold creep up his spine that was not frost or snow. It was a deep-seated chill that filled him with dread and spread to the ends of his extremities as a dark figure emerged from the mist.

Demurely, he craned his head back to regard it. He could not make out its features, as it seemed to be nothing more than a hooded cloak that floated on a wind that wasn’t there. The apparition neither spoke nor moved, yet Javert sensed that he should know it.

“You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come,” he said reverently. “You will show what has not happened but which might be.” He swallowed hard. “Which _will_ be…” he corrected.

The apparition remained still.

“You will not speak to me?”

It did not, but the folds of the robe now billowed and a frail, white hand as that of a woman pointed away. Javert followed the finger with his eyes.

“That way?”

The hand remained steady.

“I—I will follow you,” he said softly as he struggled to stand. “I will see what you wish to show me, and heed it.”

Moving on the senseless wind, the ghost drifted next to him as he began to walk in the direction the hand had shown him. The shadow of its cloak spread beneath him and around him, and the ground under his feet changed.

A thin layer of snow covered the pavement of a small village square. The sky was dark but clear, a crescent moon shining down. The square was lit not by lamps but by the lights that shone out through the windows of the houses that lined it. A generous amount of it spilled from the opened door of the building directly ahead. Above the door, a sign with a coarse painting and the words ‘Sergeant at Waterloo’ on it moved gently in the wind.

Out of the door came a man and a child. Javert observed them closely. The man was broad and quite old, judging by his white hair and beard. His clothes were good but well-worn, like a beggar with some sense of decency left. The child Javert recognised immediately as the little wretch under the kitchen table he had seen earlier. She did not seem to have aged.

“So she will be saved,” he said, voice soft with relief.

The ghost at his side raised a hand again, and the white-haired man looked up. Javert gasped. “Monsieur Madeleine?” But how? And how had his hair gotten so white when this Christmas could not be more than one or two years away from the present he knew? In any case, it meant the man had not been arrested upon his denouncement. Javert wasn’t sure how he felt about that, although he was truly glad the child was saved.

“Come, Cosette. I will take care of you now,” said Madeleine to the child as he lifted her up on his arm. “I have brought you new clothes, and a little present.” He held up a beautiful porcelain doll.

The girl opened her mouth as to give a little cry, but not a squeak came out. She clasped the doll tightly to her breast as if it was the greatest treasure in all the world to her.

“Will you be like a papa to me?” she asked as Madeleine began to carry her away.

The old man laughed gently. “I will be mother and father to you, dear child.” Yet when he looked ahead, the girl’s head resting against his shoulder, his expression became one of fear and grim determination.

Javert watched them go. He wanted to be glad that the child was out of harm’s way, but his instincts as a police spy gnawed at him. That man had been Monsieur Madeleine; that much was certain. Yet why had he been dressed as a beggar when he clearly had enough coin to purchase something better? Why that fearful expression if he had just successfully retrieved the child, as the other ghost had said he was planning to? There was no reason for either, unless there were greater problems ahead. The signs were unmistakeable to those who knew them.

“He is a fugitive,” said Javert solemnly. “My letter did expose him, yet that did not stop him from coming for the girl. Why would a convict worry himself over a child when his own life is at sake?”

The answer formed in his mind off its own accord. He knew it to be right, but nevertheless it felt alien to him:

Mercy. Criminal or not, Madeleine – Jean Valjean – had taken mercy on the girl despite his own burdens.

Javert looked at the dark spectre at his side, frowning in confusion. “I do not understand.”

A mist rose like a wave from the ghost’s cloak, enveloping them both. Javert stood as if frozen, jaws clenched tightly. Only when new lights pierced the grey shroud did he dare to look about him.

He now stood in a lavishly decorated study. Two men stood by a blazing hearth, each with a glass of cognac in hand. The faces of the men, both of whom were well beyond middle-aged, did not make sense to him, but Javert could tell that the tension between them was tangible.

“I am glad you accepted my invitation,” the first man said. “That business these last few months do not sit well with me, nor how it ended. I believe I do owe you an apology, Vidocq.”

Vidocq? The leader of the Sûreté? Javert frowned. He did not think kindly of a police force run by ex-convicts. Would Valjean become a part of them? He did not put it beyond the man. As Valjean he was strong, as Monsieur Madeleine he was clever. Someone like him would no doubt raise the interest of Vidocq, who was in that respect Valjean’s kindred spirit. Javert involuntarily stepped closer. The two men didn’t notice.

“The Prefecture owes me an apology, Gisquet. I have no quarrel with you personally.”

“Nevertheless…” The man named Gisquet drank from his glass. “The actions of you and your men were vital after that insurgence. Your methods may be controversial, but at least they were effective. Tracking down the surviving rioters was essential, and I was too short-staffed to deal with it without letting the regular rabble run free reign for months.” He sighed deeply. “Are you sure I cannot persuade you to undo your resignation? I would be glad to re-instate the Sûreté.”

Vidocq shook his head. “You did me that honour once, my friend. This time the trust in me and my men dwindled too far, and without trust I cannot operate.”

“Pity. I have good spies in my service, but your men were always better-versed. The only one of mine that ever came close to them was Javert.”

Javert started to hear his own name when he had been expecting Valjean’s. He looked over his shoulder at the ghost, but a silent hand pointed back at the conversation by the hearth.

“Yes, sad story, that,” said Vidocq, taking a swig from his glass. “Did you ever find out why he did it?”

“Not a clue.” Gisquet shook his head in exasperation. “Nothing beyond that strange note he sent to the administration that night, and that did not include any reasons, either.”

“I know. You let me read it, remember? Sound criticism he made, as I recall. Well, I say that as one who knows the penitentiary system from both sides, of course.”

Gisquet snorted a laugh. “Ha, yes! You would agree!” Then his brow creased, brief flash of amusement gone from his face. “Very much like him, though, to write such a factual letter moments prior to committing suicide.”

A vicious, stone cold grip encased Javert’s heart. Suicide? Had he – no, was he going to commit suicide? He thought of his mother’s ghost and the warnings she had given him. She had predicted he would end his own life, at this own volition.

“There must be a reason,” he said out loud. “If that is what I will come to, there must have been something to drive me to such despair!”

The conversation before him continued unperturbed, completely unheeding of his confusion.

“Perhaps he broke,” said Vidocq casually. “It happens. Usually to the best, too.”

“Or perhaps there was more to that incident at the barricade than he let on in his report,” Gisquet ventured. “He had expected to die there, he said. It may well be possible that he drove himself to meet that expectation.”

“At least you know what became of him. More often than not the river swallows what she takes.”

“Either way I could sorely do with a man of his qualities, especially without you and your men to catch what the regular police cannot.”

“Then it will please you to hear I have no intention of truly retiring. A new year is coming, and with it new opportunities. I have some plans to put these last few months behind me.”

“A toast then, to new endeavours,” said Gisquet. “In all, this has been a very sordid year. I will be glad to see the back of it and hail the start of a new one.”

The scene faded rapidly, leaving an indistinct darkness in its wake. Javert continued to stare at the memory of the image long after the light of the hearth had gone. He was not sure what he had just witnessed, but what he had heard about himself left him numb inside.

“Answer me one question, Ghost.” The solemn anxiety in his voice echoed strangely in the darkness. “Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

There was no reply. The dark spectre came closer. Javert found himself shying away from it.

“I understand,” he said. “If I do not change, I will eventually drown myself.” For the first time in his life, Javert let his head hang in surrender. “I understand. Please, take me away from here.”

The ghost did not speak or move. No mist came from its cloak and neither did the darkness lift. Overcome by a terrible fright, Javert realised that it was not done. There was more to witness. He closed his eyes, dreading with inexpressible anxiety what would come next.

The darkness did not lift, but made way for another darkness. Again it was the darkness of a night in a time to come. This night brought him to the silence of a cemetery. He shuddered. There were no lights but that of the full moon. Around him, eerie shadows played to shape headstones, statues of grieving angels and a weeping willow, sheltering a handful of graves under its drooping branches. If there were sounds, he did not hear them. If there was life anywhere in this realm, he did not see it. The only movement was a winter breeze rustling the twigs and the tall grass between the unkempt graves.

Javert wanted to ask the ghost what it was he should learn here, but he knew he would not get an answer. So he waited for the shades of the future to show him, or for the pearly white hand to point him in the right direction.

Then Javert spotted a little yellowish light passing along the row of graves. As it came closer, he saw that it was a lantern. As if came closer still, he saw it was carried by an elderly man with white hair and a white beard.

“Valjean…”

Valjean shone the light of the lantern briefly on each headstone in the row, until he came to the stone barely three feet from where Javert stood.

“Ah, there you are,” Valjean whispered, and for a heartbeat, Javert thought the man had seen him.

But he had not. The light of his lantern shone on an unpretentious headstone with a single name and a date carved in simple letters.

“Oh God,” Javert breathed, recognised the name as his own. Beneath it was carved ‘June, 1832’. Not yet ten years in the future.

To his surprise, Valjean knelt down before the grave, set the lantern down and folded his hands. His lips moved gently as he whispered an inaudible prayer.

Javert gasped for air. His chest hurt at such a gentle gesture coming from a man who he had sought to destroy. He backed away, but a cold hand on his shoulder stopped him. The ghost would not let him turn away from this.

Soon Valjean opened his eyes and moved to sit down more comfortably.

“I would have come sooner, but I scarcely got the chance with all that has been happening in my life,” the man said to the headstone. Then he looked at his hands, a sad look on his aging face. “I did not expect you to die before me,” he said earnestly. “When I set out free on the barricades, it certainly was not with the intention to see you find death elsewhere.” There was regret in his voice that, to Javert at least, should not have been there. “One as relentless as you would not give up easily, if ever. What happened, Javert?”

“I do not know,” Javert whispered in reply.

“This is so unlike you,” Valjean said with what might have been concern if not for that fact he was addressing a man already dead. “You saw through my disguise in Montreuil, you saw me to a second stint in the bagne, found me yet again to see me there for a third. It was difficult to keep myself hidden from you. I knew that if we ever met again, I would lose. So when I saw you at the barricade, I surrendered, willingly. You realised that, didn’t you? I told you, I gave myself up. And yet…”

Javert held his breath.

“And yet, you let me go and did not come back for me.”

Valjean sounded as astounded as Javert himself was at this revelation. He had captured Valjean, but let him _go_?

“You said you would not exchange a life for a life, but was that what you did? Did you take mercy on me?” The old man sighed. “Ah, if that is so, I understand why you did this to yourself. You abhorred mercy with such ferocity, how could it but kill you to show it, if only once?”

“Dear God…”

“Oh, Javert. To show mercy on another was too much for you. You could have taken mercy on yourself for doing so despite what you believed in, but since you denied yourself everything you would not give others, I can imagine that taking mercy on yourself for that breach was unthinkable.”

Valjean cleared a few sprigs of dead grass that grew at the base of the stone. “I see no flowers. Not even remnants. Am I the first to visit you here?” A pained sigh escaped his lips. “Perhaps you do not appreciate that I came. You never gave nor received compassion, and it probably infuriates you to receive any from me, as it always did.” He slowly, stiffly, rose to his feet. “I do hope your desperate act brought you peace, inspector. If so, I will not trespass on it any longer. Forgive me if I was not welcome, but it felt wrong not to say goodbye.”

He lifted the lantern, which cast a last glow on the grave. Then Valjean turned and hurried away down the row, disappearing between the statues and the trees.

Javert did not see him leave. He was shaking uncontrollably, unable to tell if his face was wet or even if his body was still in one piece. All he knew was what he fervently wishes the cemetery to disappear.

It did not.

He glanced at the black hood of the ghost, silently pleading with it to go, to get away from the world, from himself. His head hurt for all that he had seen and what it meant. His heart burst, wanting to come alive after years of lying cold and inanimate.

He knew now what was expected of him, _truly_ knew. But how to bring about such a tremendous change? How to erase all he has been and start afresh? Where to start?

“You put responsibility on shoulders that cannot carry it,” said a cold, spiteful voice that stirred a memory. Javert turned to see the dark spectre approach him. “To relieve that burden,” the voice continued, “and to divide that burden justly is an act of compassion, of mercy.”

Now two hands appeared from the cloak and threw back the hood, revealing the livid face of Fantine.

“To have mercy is an act of love. And _you!_ ” She pointed at Javert with a sharp jab of her finger, her voice thundering through his entire being. “You must learn to love! To love your fellow men, to love yourself! Or you will pull countless lives – innocent lives! – down with you into the maelstrom of destruction!”

The darkness began to move, swirling around him faster and faster, pulling and tugging at him with such force as he had never experienced. He tried to fight it, to resists, but it pulled him under, suffocating him as the water that was to claim his life. Desperate to break away, but hopelessly overpowered, he made to scream.

The moment he did, he woke with a start where he had fallen asleep behind his desk.


	5. Stave 5 – Christmas Morning

It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning. Outside, daybreak was beginning to get hold of the world and the night receded.

Javert had not slept. Upon waking in his office, he had barely waited to catch his breath and think clearly before grabbing his coat, hat and cane and heading for the docks. The whores that hung about had either scampered at the sight of him or tried to seduce him. He had paid neither any heed beyond telling them to get themselves warm. Whether they had, he did not know, but that had to be of a later concern. There was something else he had to do first.

The boy beneath the pier had been hypothermic but alive when he pulled the bundle of shawls from its hiding place. Without a second thought, he had unbuttoned his greatcoat and wrapped it around the boy as he carried the child to the hospital. It was uncertain if the child would survive despite his efforts, but there was a chance, which was more than the boy would have had otherwise.

When asked, Javert did not tell how he knew the child had been hiding there.

The rest of the night he had spend sitting before the hearth in his office, contemplating ideas and notions too numerous and too delicate to mention. He had not stirred until just now, when voices and footsteps had entered the communal office. Some of them let out a cry of wonder.

Javert smiled.

“Don’t take ‘em down yet,” he heard the voice of Sergeant Dupont say on the other side of his door. “If the old wolf’s not in yet, we can enjoy them a little longer.”

At this, Javert jumped up and paced to the door, pulling it open before the sergeant even had a chance to knock.

“The ‘old wolf’ is already in, Dupont,” he said, his voice stern and reprimanding.

The sergeant gulped and turned red. “Sorry, monsieur. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I’m sure you did not,” said Javert. Then he looked beyond the sergeant and saw half a dozen stricken faces stare back.

“We didn’t do it, monsieur,” piped Assante, pointing at the extensive Christmas decorations that hung everywhere in the office. Even the enormous garland with the ribbons and holly hung proudly from the chandelier.

“I know you did not put those up, Assante,” said Javert flatly. “I did.”

A falling pin would have made more noise than the combined astonishment of the policemen.

“M—monsieur l ‘Inspecteur?” Dupont began to stammer.

Now Javert couldn’t suppress a genuine smile. “Oh, come off it, Dupont. Surely a man is allowed to have a change of heart?”

No one dared reply. Javert shook his head. “It occurred to me last night that I have no right to bereave you from season celebration, merely because I had an uneasy day. I apologise.”

“Monsieur, I—“

“And I also apologise for not giving your idea more serious consideration, Dupont.”

The sergeant started at him, mouth half open before he remembered himself. “What idea, monsieur?”

“An extra meal for the prisoners. It is a good idea, and I should have said so yesterday. I did not then, but I do so now. Please see to it. I’m sure you had the preparations in mind already.”

Dupont did not move. “Monsieur, are you sure? Are you feeling well?”

Javert gave that a moment’s thought. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I’m sure. In fact, I do not recall ever having felt any better. Now, two more things, sergeant.”

“Oui, monsieur?”

“I need to go out for a while. I have some personal affairs to attend to and I’m leaving you in charge for the time being.”

Dupont saluted for sheer nervousness. “Oui, monsieur! And the other?”

“Can you tell me if Maltier has reported in yet?”

“He did, monsieur. I believe he is in the courtyard, getting ready for patrol.”

“Then I should hurry.” He stepped back into his office for his effects. Rather than securing his coat and hat first as was his habit, he came out while sliding into his greatcoat. “Good day, sergeant.” He glanced at the men in the office. “And merry Christmas, everyone.”

There was absolute silence as he crossed the communal office and left. The instant he closed the door behind him, an avalanche of voices broke loose. Javert was still close enough to hear it. He smiled in sincere amusement at their obvious surprise.

When he strode out into the courtyard of the police station, he was just in time to stop Maltier and his comrade from leaving on their assigned patrol.

“Maltier!” he bellowed.

The man froze on the spot. “Oui, Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

“Step aside, Maltier. I need a word with you.”

The young policeman obediently followed him to a corner of the yard, well out of earshot of anyone else.

“I am sorry for the loss of your daughter,” Javert said earnestly.

The man nearly broke where he stood. “H—how did you know?” he asked, eyes rapidly filling with tears at the unexpected reminder.

“I am a spy, Maltier. Never mind how I found out, I did not hear it from you. Why did you not tell me?”

Maltier shrugged hopelessly. “I did not think it would matter, monsieur, seeing as it is something personal and…”

“I am a strong advocate of separating one’s personal and professional lives, yes. But, Maltier, I cannot and will not expect you to perform as well as you should so soon after losing your child. These things shake a man.”

The young man was indeed physically quaking, biting his lips to keep from making a scene.

“I understand you still have the funeral to arrange?”

Maltier nodded tersely.

“Then go home and do that. Be with your family. I will have you removed from the duty roster until New Year’s Day. You will be on half pay as per regulations, but if seven days is too long, come and see me so we can discuss a suitable solution. Understood?”

Maltier nodded again, speechless.

“Good man. Now get going. We will find someone to replace you on patrol.”

In fact, there was no one to replace him, but with the patrol schedule stretched as thin as it was, leaving out one team entirely hardly added insult to injury. As Maltier hurried off to be with his family, Javert instructed his comrade to go inside and report to Dupont.

Was it this easy to combine mercy with justice, he wondered as he left the court yard and headed in a direction he had walked with a ghost last night. Was it a matter of knowing when to be lenient that found the balance? He hoped so, because these last fifteen minutes had filled him with an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation that nevertheless did not encroach on his sense of duty. The combination was oddly satisfying.

He was still puzzling on this previously unknown notion as he walked up the stairs of the hospital. Having omitted most of the hospital’s interior during his previous visit, he asked a sister for directions to Fantine’s bed.

The ward itself was exactly as he recalled it, except that the bed in which the old man had died was now empty. Javert walked down the narrow aisle to the bed in the far corner and stopped at the foot.

The woman was asleep, and he made sure not to wake her. She looked nothing like the forbidding spectre he had seen last night. Her true self was weak and fever-ridden. Dying. That he could not change.

“I did you wrong,” he said severely, undisturbed by the thought of anyone overhearing his words. “I did not show you the mercy you deserved. I cannot undo that. But I can promise you that I will see to it that your daughter will be safe and cared for.”

He recalled that it would be Monsieur Madeleine who saved the girl. He started. No, not Madeleine, but Valjean. A fugitive.

Javert turned on his heels and all but ran out, back to the police station. There was precious little he could do, he feared, but he would try. If nothing else, a second letter to the prefecture had to be send post haste. He would recount his previous allegations against the mayor, insisting that he had made a wrong assumption and had acted too hastily. It might not be enough, but if he did nothing, all would be lost!

He nearly skidded on an icy patch of snow as he rounded the corner and dashed down the square to the station. His breath came hard by the time he reached the front door.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur!” the clerk at the reception desk exclaimed. “What is that matter?”

“Urgent business,” he panted. “Nearly forgot about it.” He was about to head to his office when the clerk called him back

“Monsieur, a letter for you!”

He turned, frowning. “How so? There is no delivery on Christmas Day.”

“I’m afraid the delivery of three days ago was not processed,” the clerk admitted with a tiny voice. “I’m very sorry, monsieur. It will not happen again.”

“I’m glad to hear you are aware of your own mistake. That saves me having to reprimand you to not do it again. Now, that letter?”

The clerk stared, dumbfounded. He slowly extended the letter, almost as if expecting Javert to change his mind and deal out punishment after all.

But Javert’s eyes were on the seal on the envelope. It was from the Prefecture of Paris.

Without hesitation, he opened the letter and began to read. His expression darkened as he progressed. Then his gaze flitted back to the first sentence and he read every word again, making certain twice over that he interpreted their meaning correctly.

“Ha!” he exclaimed at last, laughing. “Crazy indeed! Well, in that case I will gladly go around crazy.” 

Sergeant Dupont, who had heard the commotion and recognised Javert’s voice, came out into the reception hall.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur? I had not expected you back so soon.” Dupont glanced at the letter and then warily watched the unusual expression on Javert’s face. “Monsieur, do I dare to ask if everything is all right?”

Javert grinned. It felt strange. He had not done it for a very long time.

“Everything is more than all right, Dupont.”

“Oh. It’s just that I heard you proclaim you were… crazy?” The last word came out as a whisper.

Javert looked at him, pocketing the letter. “The prefect’s secretary’s words, Dupont, not mine. I assure you that my mental faculties are not lacking. The secretary merely meant to emphasize that I was wrong, and I merely emphasized that I am not at all sorry to be so.”

Dupont stared. So did the clerk. He let them.

“This takes care of the urgent business I mentioned,” he said to the clerk. “Should anyone be looking for me, I will be making my apologies to the mayor.”

Saying that was likely to start all kinds of rumour among the men, Javert realised as he set out into the snow-covered square. Even more so if Monsieur Madeleine would do what he rightfully should. If that were the case, however, he would not resist the consequences.

Considering the day, the mairie would be closed. Still the mayor’s private residence was no secret, nor the fact that he did not mind people calling on him there if they had need of him. By the time Javert rang the doorbell, his previously bright mood had dissipated. This was a grave thing he came to report, and he was fully aware of it.

The housekeeper let him in and asked him to wait in the vestibule while she went to alert Monsieur Madeleine to his presence. Javert held his hat in his hands as he waited, which was not long.

“Inspector,” the mayor greeted him with an air of surprise. “What urgent matter brings you here?”

“I did not say it was urgent, monsieur.”

“It must be, for you to visit me here. So, do tell.” Madeleine’s tone was polite but not welcoming. Recalling his behaviour yesterday as well as that of the last weeks, Javert did not hold it against him.

“It is a very serious matter, monsieur, but urgent only because I do not wish to leave it to linger. You see, I have committed a crime against your person.”

The mayor’s eyes widened. “How so?”

“After our argument over the girl, Fantine, I wrote a letter to the prefecture in anger, denouncing you as a convict who goes by the name of Jean Valjean.”

Madeleine paled. Javert knew why. He knew very well, but the letter in his pocket said it wasn’t so.

“I received a reply today,” he continued, wanting to spare the older man the needless anxiety, “stating that I am very much mistaken, because a man identified as Jean Valjean was arrested earlier this month for a recent crime and put to trial.”

Colour did not return to the mayor’s face. “Are they sure it is he?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Javert nodded. “They are. And so am I.” He looked Monsieur Madeleine in the eye. “Even if I would not be, I would have every reason to leave this matter be regardless, monsieur. You do good in this town. A great many people depend on you. The people of this town, but also the daughter of the girl Fantine.” He paused a moment to allow Madeleine to recognise his words.  

“There is that,” the mayor said meekly.

“So to see you removed from office, your factory shut and you in irons would be the true crime, monsieur,” Javert asserted with force. Then he cast his gaze down. “A crime I attempted to commit, and for which I should be punished accordingly.”

Monsieur Madeleine did not speak for several long minutes. When Javert dared to look up to gauge the man’s response, he was met with an unprecedented sight.

The mayor had tears in his eyes.

“I had never dared to expect this of you, inspector,” he whispered with a tremor to this voice that could only be describe as gratitude.

“Nor had I ever expected it of myself,” Javert admitted. “I suppose one could say that the spirit of Christmas had something to do with it.”

Madeleine stiffened warily. “Only for this day?”

“No,” Javert said honestly. “I believe that such a profound experience impacts a man for life.”

“Then why do you ask me to punish you for an honest mistake?”

Javert straightened himself. “It would be just to do so. To show such disrespect for a magistrate warrants dishonourable dismissal.”

“Isn’t Christmas the time for forgiveness?”

At this, Javert rebuked. “Forgiveness and mercy may be bestowed on those who deserve it. I, however, committed a crime that only deserves punishment!”

“Ah, but you are too hard on yourself, inspector.”

The words and the warm smile that accompanied them struck Javert at the core. Within the span of a heartbeat, all the memories of last night washed over him and the words of the third ghost rang loudly in his ears.

“Perhaps,” he was strained to say, “perhaps if Monsieur le Maire does not deem it necessary to press charges against me…” He could not make himself finish his sentence.

A large hand coming to rest gently on his shoulder made him look up.

“Your apology suffices, Javert. Now, in light of all this I believe there is much we have to discuss. Will you reconsider my offer to join me for dinner tonight?”

In the wake of such enormous changes as were taking place in the span of just this morning, it was surprisingly easy to add another.

“Yes, monsieur,” said Javert, daring to smile. “I believe I would like to accept your invitation.”

**Author's Note:**

> According to online dictionaries, 'daj' is Roma for 'mother'. Feel free to correct me if I got it wrong.


End file.
